Mr. Harvey Froyant preserved a tight-lipped silence. He was a stickler for the conventions, where their observations benefited himself. They had reached the crest of the rise, when suddenly his arm was gripped, and he turned to see Jack Beardmore, staring at the bole of the tree. Froyant followed the direction of his eye and took a step backward, his unhealthy face a shade paler. Painted on the tree trunk was a rough circle of crimson, and the paint was yet wet. Chapter IV. Mr. Felix Marl Jack Beardmore looked round, scanning the country. The only human being in sight was a man who was walking slowly away from them, carrying a bag in his hand. Jack shouted, and the man turned. “Who are you?” demanded Jack. Then, “What are you doing here?” The stranger was a tall, stoutish man, and the exertion of carrying his grip had left him a little breathless. It was some time before he could reply. “My name is Marl,” he said, “Felix Marl. You may have heard of me. I think you are young Mr. Beardmore, aren’t you?” “That is my name,” said Jack. “What are you doing here?” he asked again. “They told me there was a short cut from the railway station, but it is not so short as they promised,” said Mr. Marl, breathing stertorously. “I’m on my way to see your father.” “Have you been near that tree?” asked Jack, and Marl glared at him. “Why should I go near any tree?” he demanded aggressively. “I tell you I’ve come straight across the fields.” By this time Harvey Froyant arrived, and apparently recognised the new-comer. “This is Mr. Marl; I know him. Marl, did you see anybody near that tree?” The man shook his head. Apparently the tree and its secret was a mystery to him. “I never knew there was a tree there,” he said. “What--what has happened?” “Nothing,” said Harvey Froyant sharply. They came to the house soon after, Jack carrying the visitor’s bag. He was not impressed by the big man’s appearance. His voice was coarse, his manner familiar, and Jack wondered what association this uncouth specimen of humanity could have with his father. They were nearing the house when suddenly and for no obvious reason the stout Mr. Marl emitted a frightened squeal and leapt back. There was no doubt of his fear. It was written visibly in the blanched cheeks and the quivering lips of the man, who was shaking from head to foot. Jack could only look at him in astonishment--and even Harvey Froyant was startled into an interest. “What the hell is wrong with you, Marl?” he asked savagely. His own nerves were on edge, and the sight of the big man’s undisguised terror was a further strain which he could scarcely endure. “Nothin’--nothin’,” muttered Marl huskily. “I’ve been----” “Drinking, I should think,” snapped Froyant. After seeing the man into the house Jack hurried off in search of Derrick Yale. He discovered the detective in the shrubbery sitting in a big cane chair, his chin upon his breast, his arms folded, a characteristic attitude of his.